Chapter 1 Prologue: The Raid

The scent of ash danced with the wind, curling into Liora's lungs like a phantom kiss. Firelight shimmered across the thatched rooftops of her village - a crimson glow that lit the sky like a second sun, twisted and cruel. Screams echoed in waves, sharp as blades, but she no longer flinched.

She'd already screamed herself hoarse.

Her wrists were bound in coarse rope, and her knees bruised from where she'd been dragged through the mud and thrown to the ground like cattle. Around her, others knelt-men too wounded to fight, women too scared to cry. She was the last girl they took. And not by chance.

The warlord watched her from atop his black warhorse like a god judging ruined mortals. He didn't blink. His face was half-shrouded in a dark hood, but the firelight caught the sharp edge of his jaw, the cruel curve of his mouth.

Lord Kaelen Rhyss.

The name whispered like sin among the rebels. The Eastland Beast. The conqueror who didn't take prisoners unless they pleased him.

Tonight, Liora pleased him.

He dismounted in silence, his armor bloodstained but polished. The cold night wind toyed with the loose strands of her hair as he knelt beside her, eyes roaming-inspecting, claiming. She refused to look down. Her chin stayed high, even as the firelight danced over his gloved hand tracing her cheek.

"You have fire," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "They always burn brightest before I snuff them out."

"I'd rather burn than kneel."

That earned her a pause.

And a smile.

Not a kind one.

He stood. "Strip her. Wash her. Bring her to the black keep before the moon wanes."

She was dragged, still fighting, still cursing - and Kaelen watched her like a man already imagining her beneath silk sheets instead of chains.

---

The palace was nothing like her village - it was colder, older, carved into stone and silence. The halls whispered secrets Liora didn't understand, and every step toward his chambers felt like descending into the mouth of a beast. But her fire hadn't dimmed.

Not yet.

She was bathed in rosewater, dressed in thin silks that hid nothing, and led through a corridor lit with golden sconces and dark red drapes. Her breath was steady. Her pulse was not.

The doors opened.

Kaelen stood at the window, bare-chested, moonlight painting the scars down his back in silver. He didn't turn when she entered. Only spoke.

"You defied me tonight."

Liora said nothing.

"You should be afraid."

Still nothing.

He turned, and now his eyes were on her - dark as midnight, wild as wolves. He took slow, purposeful steps toward her until they stood just heartbeats apart.

"You should tremble, girl."

"I am not a girl," she said. "And I do not tremble."

A smile touched his lips - wolfish, arrogant. "Then you'll learn."

And when his hand finally touched her, it wasn't cruel. Not yet. It was a slow promise - not of pain, but of control. Of ownership. Of something wicked and intimate and impossible.

In a kingdom where war steals names and silence is the only weapon the weak are allowed, Liora's voice becomes her rebellion. And Kaelen - her captor, her ruin, her temptation - is about to learn what happens when fire kisses fire.